Sacred Ground

There's a little old graveyard on my way to work in Vinton, just off Highway 30. Because I pass there every day, and because I love its scraggly tree, I stopped yesterday to take some shots that I've been meaning to take. I think black and white is best for cemeteries.





I just had a little time so I didn't stay long, but these missed opportunities chafe at me, and I've looked at this cemetery all Winter, thinking about how old and lonely it is. A farmer was out in his tractor, plowing the surrounding field. I wonder if he comes and mows. All the graves are old, from the late 1800's, and some have pretty expensive granite stones. This one was more economical.

My Mom and I used to go do grave rubbings. You place a sheet of newsprint against the stone and rub with crayon or charcoal. The result is a negative of what was written on the stone. Another way to read them is to go after dark and shine a light straight down the length of the stone, enhancing contrast.






My love of signs continues. Sacred is where you say it is. A kid asked me one time, "Mr. Thompson, where do you worship?"

"Everywhere I go," I told him. Everywhere I go.